Revenge
by Letting The Rain In
Summary: Revenge is never taken on those who've wronged you
1. Chapter 1

**This started out as a block beater, but it ran away with me. Well, we'll see where this leads …**

**I hope Ridley doesn't mind me using her Caleb again. I can't help myself. He's such fun!**

**Naturally, I don't own supernatural, or its characters.**

**This is also for Supernoodle. Merry Xmas pal.**

Dean tried to move forward, tried to push past the pain that threatened to shut him down. He took another hard won step forward; one arm braced against his ribs the other supporting him against the wall.

One more step had him crashing to his knees, painfully. As much as he could, Dean kept his weight to his left leg, but the damage had been done and he couldn't stop the moan that escaped his tight throat. He swiftly slid so he sat on his butt, trying to stretch his injured leg out before him and ignoring the mess he was getting on his favourite jacket.

Breathing hard, Dean wondered just when the night had gone so bad.

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Caleb watched his friend through narrowed eyes. It had been three months since Sammy had left – three months since the smile had slipped from Dean's face and the sparkle had faded from his eyes.

The younger man put on a good front for his dad, nodding in the right places, doing as he was told as always, but Dean was unusually quiet. He reminded Caleb of a withdrawn little boy with blond hair and large, sad eyes. It was a painful image and not one he ever thought he'd see again.

Dean felt his stare and lifted his head, but the frown of annoyance, and its accompanying smartass remark, was horribly absent.

Before Caleb could say anything to break the ever-present silence, the door to the nearly empty bar banged open to admit John Winchester.

Caleb caught Dean's frozen flinch, before the younger man lowered his eyes to his barely touched beer bottle.

"Boys," John greeted them in his low voice. "We've got a lead."

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Caleb whistled as they drove up to the old house. Beside him, Dean continued to stare out at the rain and frustrated, Caleb punched his shoulder.

"Dude, look at the state of this place!"

Dean turned complacently to do so, receiving another punch for his trouble.

"Snap out of it, man, we got a job to do."

Dean shot him a glance, but simply opened his door and disappeared into the rain. Caleb sighed, banged his head against the steering wheel once and followed his friend.

John watched his eldest son step into the rain. He didn't appear to notice the weather, simply waited for his next instructions.

As much as he loved his boys, John couldn't abide moping. He'd given Dean some space and a bit of grace, because he knew _his_ leaving had hit the older boy hard, but enough was enough. It was time for Dean to get his head back in the game before someone got themselves hurt.

John spared both boys a quick glance as he exited his truck, before turning back to the run down house.

"My contact told me the body was buried here. I'll take the grave; think you two can handle the spirit?"

"Piece of cake," Caleb shrugged, both he and the elder Winchester waiting for an agreement from Dean that never came.

"Dean," John pressed.

His oldest turned those remarkably expressive eyes towards him and John felt that funny little twist in his gut he seemed to get more and more often these days. Dean was calling out to him without words and John didn't have the time or energy to answer him. Each time the boy looked at him, it felt as if Dean were four again and begging John to make it better, to bring back mummy.

Only, Dean hadn't spoken to him for months once John had explained that he couldn't and John hadn't the strength to disappoint his little boy again when Dean's eyes asked him to bring back Sammy.

"Get your game face on, son," he grunted. "I'm not picking up your slack again."

Dean hid the pain well from his father, who was staring at the house once more, but Caleb thought he saw the flicker of emotion that Dean seemed to shrug off, letting it slide from him as easily as the rain ran down his jacket. Caleb frowned unhappily.

Dean and John had an emotional hit and miss relationship, based on hero-worship on Dean's part and fear of loving him on John's, as if the emotion would strip away his ability to distance himself. And if John was going to send the kid out as a soldier of his own personal war, the father in him needed to be able to shut his eyes.

John and Dean were a minefield at the best of times, with Dean defending his dad on any subject, but the exit of Sam confused Dean's black and white rigid certainties, smudging the edges of where he thought his place was marked. No longer able to follow the guidelines, Dean was simply and sadly lost.

The kid didn't know how to blame his father for sending his brother away, didn't know how to blame Sam for making it impossible for John. Caleb knew exactly how to blame the both of them for messing Dean up so badly he could barely function.

John, and more importantly Sam, had given him something to be proud of and now that was gone, taken away in the cruellest of ways. Dean understood he was being punished. He understood he had done something wrong. He just didn't know what.

Sam and John. Caleb would have liked ten minutes alone with each of them.

As it was, he was alone and dealing with a shell-shocked, numb and increasingly dangerous to himself Dean Winchester.

The two younger men left John outside and entered the building. Almost immediately, the hairs on the back of Caleb's neck prickled and he could feel the cold enter his lungs, burning with each breath.

"He's certainly aware we're here," he huffed. "We haven't even done anything yet."

Dean gave his standard issue non-grunt of agreement and Caleb fought hard not to sigh. Sighing had been more Sam's bag, after all. It was unnerving, Caleb had rarely found himself on a different wavelength to Dean before and these days he found himself sighing in frustration with alarming regularity.

So caught up with these thoughts, Caleb almost missed the signs as Dean's movements tightened, his body tensed and then the younger man was sprinting through the hall and into the far room.

Caleb raced after him just in time to see Dean blast his shotgun at the emaciated form of Kain Walsh. Dean turned to him with an imitation of his cocky, shit-eating grin and Caleb answered with one of his own.

Dean's expression turned deathly serious with a suddenness that Caleb appreciated as he levelled his gun at him. "Drop!"

Caleb did without hesitation, hearing Dean's shot blast through the space he had previously occupied as Kain reappeared behind the younger hunter.

"Dean!"

Caleb scrambled to his feet as the spirit shrieked and sent Dean through the air.

"Dean!" Caleb shouted again as the man crashed into the bottom of the wall.

Sitting up, Dean let out a harsh burst of laughter. This was the first time in weeks he had been able to feel anything other than the gaping hole left by his brother's abandonment and he gasped through the last of the short laugh, relishing the pain. He stood unsteadily, gathered his bearings and his balance and spread his arms wide.

"Come on, you son of a bitch! Take another shot!"

The second spirit, the one who had initially taken to Caleb, appeared beside Kain and the psychic groaned when he realised it was Helen Walsh, the wife supposedly murdered by her husband upon finding his dark secret and store of decomposing bodies.

Either she was amazingly forgiving or in on the whole thing from the start.

Dean shouted again, taunting the two, before telling Caleb to find John and tell him to find where Helen now lay.

Caleb started to protest but Dean, looking the most animated he had all night, shouted that they didn't have time to argue. If he kept them busy, like the original plan, Caleb and John would have time to find Helen's grave too, without the benefit of a pissed off spirit breathing down their necks and trying to find some walls to throw them against.

Despite his better judgement and mainly because Dean had engaged the ghosts again by reloading and blasting Helen, Caleb threw his gun to his friend and sprinted out the house.

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As Caleb left, Kain lifted Dean up, the hunter unable to bring the loaded gun into play. Naturally, the previous owners of the haunted building had left their immense wall cabinet behind.

Kain, just as naturally, found it perfect for bashing unwelcome visitors upon.

Duck and cover, Dean told himself as his body hit the furniture solidly. Landing hard, the wind chased from his lungs, Dean watched as the cabinet wobbled above him.

He hesitated, remembering actually being able to _feel_ something other than loss. He began to curl into the foetal position, lifting his arms to shield his head as the monstrosity fell on him, glass slicing in several places.

Desperately trying to encourage oxygen back into his lungs, Dean was pulled abruptly from beneath the wreckage. Twisting mid air, he could see Helen had reappeared beside her late husband and had taken over. She gave him a smile before casting him casually aside, as if bored of a new toy.

Dean's back found the old wooden table as he slammed into it from the force of Kain's strike and he rolled off it from momentum, knocking his right knee with such force he suspected he might have knocked the patella out of alignment if only briefly. Its soaring chorus of pain accompanied the dull throb of bruised ribs from the first pasting he had received and with a soft groan and a wide smile; Dean pulled himself once more to his feet.

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Caleb, panting, skidded to a halt before John as he pulled himself out of the grave, asking the younger man what the hell he was doing.

"Two spirits!" Caleb gasped, gesturing towards the house. "Need Helen's grave!"

John didn't waste time questioning the younger hunter; he simply spun on his heel turning back to the half dug grave in the extensive, overgrown lands surrounding the property.

"Go back to Dean!" John ordered over his shoulder as he began to dig once more. "I'll take care of the bodies."

Caleb didn't hang around to argue, sprinting back to the car and plucking his .45 out of the glove box before heading back to the house.

"Deuce!" he bellowed, as the door crashed open in his hurry.

There was no reply and Caleb swallowed his worry to check each room methodically, starting with the end of the corridor where he had last seen the younger Winchester.

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Dean had fallen through the rotten floorboards on the third assault.

His damaged knee had screamed silent agony and his ribs had flared angrily but the spirits hadn't followed him. He wasn't naive enough to think that his dad had banished them yet; Dean knew they had assumed him taken care of. Miserably, he acknowledged that he had failed his father; the spirits would attempt to stop John from lighting their remains.

Now he sat on the cold, damp ground of an old tunnel, contemplating all the bad things that had happened since … that night.

An involuntary shiver passed through him and he let his head fall back against the wall with a soft groan. Why did that happen when he let himself be aware of _his_ missing presence? Like he couldn't breathe and like he had too much air all at the same time. He could feel it in his chest. Bubbling, clawing. Building up. Pressing against his sobbing heart, longing to scream and held in by icy iron will. Winchester will; the coldest steel ever forged.

Banishing the feelings to the darkened grave of his soul, Dean caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Lifting his head he frowned, concentrating as a figure moved towards him, far too solid to be a spirit and somehow much more threatening.

Feeling at a distinct disadvantage on the ground, Dean struggled to rise to his feet, favouring his right leg and leaning heavily against the wall. The stranger, a man of his father's age reached him, standing close enough for Dean to insist on his personal space. Far off he heard Caleb call for him and the figure raised a finger to Dean's lips and a gun to his stomach.

Dean blinked sweat out of his eyes and locked gazes with the man before him.

"That won't kill me," he pointed out quietly.

The man smiled slowly. "Not quickly," he replied with apparent relish. "It could take hours. You'll die in terrible pain, son, begging me to end it."

"I don't beg," Dean responded.

The man smiled again. "You sound like him." He swung the gun quickly, catching Dean's temple and causing him to smack the back of his head on the old brick wall. "I never could stand the self-righteous bastard."

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Caleb found the hole in the floor with a sense of trepidation. He hadn't seen a trace of the spirits and he knew with a sinking certainty what that meant. Caleb figured John could hold his own for a while at least and peered into the gloom unsure whether to be relieved that Dean wasn't sprawled among the splinters of wood. On one hand, it meant he was obviously very much alive, but on the other …

"Dean?" he called. "Come on, kid, answer me! John's gonna be pissed enough that the ghosts are on his ass without you going MIA."

The haunting whisperings of echoes answered through the tunnel.

"Shit," Caleb complained, dropping through the hole and onto the pile of boards.

"You just can't make my life easy, can you?"

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Dean was aware of the cold first.

It crept upon him nerve by nerve, as if submerging slowly into ice water and as he breathed, the sensation seemed to coat the insides of his lungs until every breath bit into his chest.

After the cold came the pain, a sharp ache in his knee and fiery trails across his thigh, abdomen and shoulder.

Then sound returned, lost in the distance at first, but coming ever closer and clearer. Eventually he could hear his own ragged breathing and the groan that escaped his tight throat and when there was nothing else to do but wonder what had happened, Dean opened his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Since this is Supernoodle's special story, I thought it would be fitting to post this Chapter on her birthday.**

**Happy Birthday sweets x**

It was dark.**  
**

Dean found himself blinking, as if something was obstructing his vision, straining to see. He coughed, the cold settling into his lungs making his breathing uncomfortable. Slowly his eyes began to adjust to the gloom and he was able to make out a door opposite him.

He was cuffed, his arms above his head, the weight of his body pulling on the deep cuts across his shoulder and stomach, but when he tried to stand, his knee refused to take the weight. Resigned for the time being to being stuck, he slumped back, the metal restraints nipping the delicate skin on his wrists.

In the dark, Dean allowed his other senses to wander. His nose tickled, the damp smell of earth making him guess he was still somewhere underground, the sound of the wind blowing along a tunnel telling him he couldn't have gone too far from the haunting.

He was shivering, his skin tingling as the fine hairs stood on end beneath his clothing. The only warmth he felt was from the blood slowly seeping from the cuts the falling glass case had caused, and they were cooling quickly.

If I'm still bleeding, I've not been out for long, he reasoned, somewhat relieved by the thought.

Harsh light flooded the room, causing Dean to turn away.

"Dude," he groaned. "That's not cool."

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Caleb shone his torch along the ground from his position on the fallen floorboards.

Dean had found a tunnel running from the house through the grounds, the darkness stretching endlessly in either direction.

He found footprints easily against the floor of the tunnel, disappearing into the yawning shadows where a cool wind emerged, ruffling his hair.

Feeling like a character in an Edgar Allen Poe story, Caleb followed the direction Dean had taken. Watching, as the light from his torch seemed overwhelmed by the oppressive gloom, Caleb hoped there wasn't an orang-utan waiting at the other end for him.

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Dean squinted at the man who'd taken him.

His earlier assessment of the man's age seemed a bit off, on closer inspection. He realised the guy was actually past his father's age by a number of years, his face weighed down by something like grief. He also appeared to be a certified lunatic.

"You're Winchester's son?" the man demanded. "John Winchester – you're his son?"

"Who the hell are you?" Dean replied, blinking in the harsh light.

"Tell me! Are you a Winchester?"

Dean snorted. "I'm not telling you jack."

"You don't look like him," the man muttered to himself, his eyes roving rapidly over Dean. "They tell me the oldest child has his mother's looks." He lifted the gun back to Dean's head, reconnecting with his captive. "Are you the eldest Winchester boy? Answer me!"

"Suppose I was – what then?"

The man smiled. "My name is Reg Keller. I'm gonna change your life."

Dean eyed the gun suspiciously. "Dude, couldn't you just write me into your will?"

"No," Keller breathed. "It's so much better than money. I'm gonna make you invincible! Apart from a certain sensitivity to silver."

"What?"

Keller frowned. "Hasn't Winchester taught you anything?" he demanded. "Werewolves, boy! Killed with a silver bullet!"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "You've got a werewolf somewhere round here?" He'd never dealt with one, but he knew his Dad had once.

Keller ignored him. "It has its perks. You'll be human most of the time - you won't even remember your time as a wolf. Your first clue will be when your Daddy plants a silver .38 in your heart."

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Caleb crouched by the area where Dean had rested. He had been bleeding, but not badly, Caleb was sure of it. Trying to get a read, Caleb let his mind wander. With a sigh, he sensed Dean's unbearable loneliness.

"Messed up," the psychic muttered.

Searching further, he thought he could feel something else, curiosity tinged with fear. He could only see one set of prints leading away from the site, and perplexed, Caleb lent closer to the ooze on the ground, looking intently at every minute detail.

Eventually his patience paid off and he realised two people had stood in this spot. The prints were better, leading away, where the walker had been heavier, pressing harder into the ground. Or burdened by another body.

Then he saw them, the tracks leading towards him, hidden where the person had been carefully treading. Frowning, Caleb followed the tracks, more alert and wondering just what he was dealing with now.

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"I spent years perfecting this," Keller admitted, fiddling with the gun. "I used to inject the infected blood straight into the veins, but they always succumbed too soon, just as bad as a direct bite. Didn't give me enough time, not for what I wanted."

"You infected someone?" Dean asked, feeling a little sick. This man had already done what he was threatening; he'd already crossed the line. He remembered his Dad telling him as he emptied his guts after his first corporeal killing, it's easier the second time.

"Don't worry," Keller replied offhandedly. "I killed them."

"That makes me feel all kinds of better," Dean growled. "What are you doing? Creating your own private safari?"

The man glanced at him incredulous. "You think I'm in this for the hunt?" he moved closer, pushing his face into Deans. "I want revenge!" he hissed. "I want John Winchester to suffer like I suffered." Gripping Dean's shoulders, he shook him, screaming. "I had to kill my own son!"

Dean blinked as Keller collapsed onto him. He felt for the poor bastard, but the event had obviously unhinged him. Nothing gave him the right to destroy innocent lives as he had done in his effort to perfect his weapon. Keller sobbed onto Dean's shoulder for a moment and uncomfortable, Dean swallowed hard. "Dad would have done all he could –" he began.

"All he could?" Keller straightened. "He told me he didn't get holy water into him soon enough – does that sound like he did all he could?" He shook Dean again. "He gave me a choice! Kill my child or let him do it for me."

Dean stared hard at the man. He wouldn't believe John had abandoned a fellow hunter, there must have been a reason his Dad couldn't have gotten to the kid in time.

Keller let go abruptly. "You understand revenge, don't you boy?" he asked, breathing hard. "I've nothing against you, you're a good kid. But your worthless bastard of a father has to endure the pain I went through. I know you understand."

Dean let his head fall back onto the wall behind him. Terrific. Now Keller was trying to reason with him. If he agreed, Keller would feel righteous in his actions, assured he was doing the correct thing.

Keller was speaking again. "I tried to get them to ingest the infected blood, hoping the digestion process would slow the advance. But they could never hold it down long enough for it to take effect." He smiled softly. "Then I hit on it. If I shot a person with a blood-coated bullet, it not only infects them slowly, it allows the body to attempt to fight it. I understand it's a very painful process."

Dean shivered. "You're gonna leave me here to die?" he guessed. "Let Dad find my body at some stage?"

"Leave you? Son, I'm going to set you free." Keller turned away, doing something with the gun again, muttering to himself. "Let Winchester deal with his son becoming that which he despises." He levelled the gun at Dean. "I'm sorry, I've no choice," he said and pulled the trigger.

Pain ripped into Dean's side and he cried out at the impact. Working on controlling his breathing, he lifted his head as Keller watched him. "There, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

"You son of a bitch," Dean growled. "You're gonna be the first person I bite!"

Keller laughed, coming forward again to release Dean from his restraints. "You think you're going to send me to hell?" He watched dispassionately as Dean's injured leg buckled under the weight it was suddenly required to support. He bent to breathe into Dean's ear, "I'm already there!"

Without another word, Keller straightened, lifted his pistol to his head and pulled the trigger. Dean jumped in surprise, jerking away from the body as it fell across his legs. Dean stared at Keller, unable to look away from the gore for several long moments.

Finally, he pushed the man off him and grunting from the effort, pulled himself to his feet.

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Caleb heard the two shots, their hollow echoes mocking him as he threw caution to the wind and ran down the tunnel, sliding in the mess in his haste. He almost missed the open door leading off the main passageway. He was so surprised to find it; he overshot and had to backtrack. He carefully peeked in.

A lone body lay near the far wall, half the head blown away, the naked light bulb hanging low from the ceiling garishly illuminating the gore. Caleb approached warily, gratefully acknowledging the man was too heavy, short and aged to be Dean. The young man could only see one injury on him and swallowing his revulsion, he nudged the dead man over with the toe of his boot to check the front of the body.

No other wound was apparent, but Caleb had heard two shots. He could only assume the other had been aimed at his friend and leaving the room, Caleb mentally berated himself for leaving Dean alone. John would have discovered the second spirit the moment he entered the house, he could easily have gone back out. What had seemed so vitally important appeared laughable compared to this nightmare.

Caleb had been taught to expect the worst, every time. John's pessimistic boot camp had had a good reason; should Dean be injured, Caleb was mentally prepared to deal with it, wasting no time in aiding the kid and potentially saving his life. However, should Dean prove his theory of being bulletproof, Caleb'd be pleasantly surprised and made to endure the agony of Dean's insufferable ego.

Caleb privately admitted Dean's insufferable ego would be a welcome relief from his bewildered pain.

Rounding a corner, he saw a shape on the ground, lying still and huddled.

Instinctively he knew it was Dean, he'd spent hours tracking the Winchester brothers through forest and town in exercises devised by John to keep his young sons occupied and Caleb off his back about training. Now adults, Caleb was in the habit of dropping by the small family without warning and his skills were as sharp as they had been in their hide-and-seek heyday.

Heart in his mouth, Caleb dropped beside Dean, his fingers going to his neck as his eyes scanned the area, his mind seeking another presence. Finding none, he returned his attention to his friend, relived to find the skin warm and a pulse beating beneath his fingertips.

Dean's eyes were shut, his breathing rapid and broken, but he moved under Caleb's touch, eventually opening his eyes when the elder man pulled away Dean's jacket to reveal the gun wound.

"Shit," the psychic swore softly. He met Dean's gaze, a surge of worry hitting him as he noticed how distant Dean seemed. "Deuce? Think you can walk?"

Dean blinked slowly, but nodded. "Got shot," he announced, as if surprised. "Kinda sucks, Caleb."

The psychic chuckled. Having been shot himself, he could identify with the way Dean had disconnected from the injury, the minds way of protecting itself.

Dean moaned as Caleb heaved him to his feet, allowing himself to lean on his friend, a sure sign the apocalypse was happening.

Together, they made their way slowly down the tunnel, heading in the same direction Dean had taken since falling through the rotten floor. They knew what was behind them, a dead man and a long tunnel leading to nowhere. They hoped an exit would be in front.

Caleb tried to take on as much of Dean's weight as he could; realising more than the gun shot wound was hindering his progress.

Dean groaned, almost falling as his knee again buckled. "He killed himself," he commented, as Caleb steadied him, readjusting his grip.

He tried to tell the younger man to save his strength, but Dean insisted on talking.

"He said Dad got his son killed," Dean breathed, lifting a shaking hand to wipe the sweat from his eyes. "He wanted Dad to know how it felt."

"By killing you?" Caleb guessed, hoping to keep him talking, knowing the sweating was a sign of shock.

Dean seemed lost in his thoughts. "I think Dad already knows how it feels," he commented quietly.

Caleb struggled to find something to say and in the silence, Dean sighed. Unable to say what was on his mind; namely, that John deserved anything Sam dished out and vice versa, Caleb almost whooped with relief at finding the storm gate ahead.

"C'mon, Deuce, not much further now."

Dean nodded, his chin seeming to rest on his chest as his strength waned. "Dad's gonna be pissed."

"Yeah," Caleb grunted, hoisting Dean's arm back over his shoulder where he was slipping. He privately wondered if the eldest Winchester was going to stick true to form and be pissed at the wrong person.

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It took some time to kick open the gate; by the time Caleb bent to pull Dean back to his feet, he was sweating as much as the injured boy. They carefully entered the grounds, finding John attacking another spot, further along from several deep holes.

Upon seeing John, Caleb ground his teeth. It was painfully clear his contact had either fed him bad information or given him the run around. An experienced hunter like Winchester should know better than to trust blindly, but John had been too eager to give his frustration an outlet, jumping in head first for what should have been a simple salt'n'burn.

Typically, it wasn't John who paid the price for his arrogance. John called it a war. The analogy suited the situation, Caleb thought ruefully. Generals rarely got the bullet.

"John," he called. "Give it up; the Kain's aren't buried here."

Winchester grunted, never lifting his head from his work. "Neither spirit's approached me; maybe they're not strong enough to return immediately after the rock salt."

"They're strong enough. We've got another problem," Caleb announced, and this time John raised his head. His expression darkened at seeing the mess his son was in.

"Dad?" Dean struggled to lift himself from Caleb's support, aiming to stand on his own, or at least, support the greater part of his weight.

"Don't be an ass," Caleb told him, bringing him closer again. "You don't have to prove anything to him."

Dean ignored Caleb, forcibly pushing himself away from his friend, swaying unsteadily. "I'm sorry, Dad, I-"

"Save it," John barked. "I'm not in the mood for excuses."

Dean stumbled as if slapped, rocking back on his heels sharply. "Yessir," he agreed.

"Come off it, he's not apologising for anything!" Caleb snapped, struggling to keep Dean upright despite the younger man's best efforts to push him away. "If anything, you should be the one begging forgiveness."

"Me?" John snarled. "I didn't fuck this hunt up!"

"You got bad intel and didn't check it out – you sent us in blind!"

Dean tried to talk, working hard to push the words past his lips. His strength was waning, the world fading to grey. "Stop it," he managed quietly. "Please, Sam, don't," he added, his voice breaking on the last word.

The mention of the youngest Winchester's name froze John, took the breath from him like a sucker punch. It was the first time since Sam had left his name was spoken in his presence, the first time, for all he knew, Dean had mentioned him. It felt strange to hear it, emotion raw and unwelcome clouding his eldest son's voice.

For Caleb it signalled something else, something far more worrying. "Dean?"

"I can't," he moaned weakly. "I can't listen to it any more." His body shutting down, he couldn't keep himself upright and Caleb allowed him to descend to the ground. He laid Dean down gently, a hand cupping his face.

"Deuce? You with me buddy?"

Dean blinked hazily at him. "Caleb?"

"Who'd you expect?" Caleb laughed in relief.

Dean moved slightly, trying to look around. "Was Sam here?"

"We need to get him out of here," John said, his own voice gruff, his expression worried.

"First thing I've agreed with all night," Caleb snapped. "Help me with him."

Between the two of them, they got Dean upright again. Hanging limply from their shoulders, Dean was half carried, half dragged back to the Impala. They settled him into the backseat, Caleb climbing in with him to hold pressure over the bullet wound.

As John peeled out of the drive, Caleb lifted the wadded up shirt he was using as a pad for the injury, frowning when he saw very little blood had flowed. "Flick on the light," he instructed, worried.

John complied, glancing into the mirror to watch his son and Caleb. "What is it?"

Caleb looked up, catching his gaze. "He's not bleeding. There's a lot of bruising spreading from the wound."

John swallowed. "Internal bleeding?"

"It looks like it. We're gonna have to risk a hospital."

"Shit." John had been hoping he would be able to deal with it himself, the hospitals reported every GSW and they could do without the police becoming involved.

Dean struggled against Caleb once he heard what his friend had said. "Wolf," he gasped, his trembling hand gesturing to his side. "Poison," he added, trying to make the others understand.

"Wolf poison?" Caleb repeated. He was trying to get a read on his friend, but all he could find was the shooting, repeated over and over, the words of the rouge hunter distorted by the rushing of Dean's blood as his heart sped up, responding to the surge of adrenaline he'd experienced.

"Yeah," Dean replied now, his breathing shallow and rapid in an attempt to match his racing heart. "Wolf."

Caleb's eyes widened in realisation. "Dean, are you infected?" he demanded.

Dean nodded, his eyes beginning to glaze over. "Son of a bitch shot me," he agreed.

"Head for Bobby's!" Caleb shouted. "We've got to get holy water into him and the bullet out!"

John reached blindly for the glove department, spilling papers and fake badges, id's and assorted paraphernalia onto the floor as he groped for the small flask he kept in there. "Make him drink it all," he ordered unnecessarily, handing it to Caleb.

Dean didn't much care for the liquid, gagging and trying to evade the flask, but Caleb persisted, trying to ignore Dean as he screamed, the holy water taking effect. Caleb was horrified to see small wisps of smoke rise from the wound, something dark and thick bubbling within the bullet hole.

Caleb swabbed at the injury, trying to wipe the dark liquid away, gagging at the rotten, putrid smell. As Dean quietened, opening his eyes to stare accusingly at him, Caleb offered a soft apology and put the rim of the flask against his lips again.

"C'mon, Deuce," he cajoled, reminded of a time when Dean was being stubborn about taking his medicine as a child. "Suck it up."

Dean was coherent enough to roll his eyes, but he nodded, giving Caleb the go ahead to tip more of the water into his mouth.

Again, the younger man screamed in agony, forcing Caleb to hold him down as his back arched. Dean cut the cry off, biting his lip and trying to tough it out. Panting harshly, he nodded again and Caleb offered him the flask once more.

Dean coughed as that last drop went down, withering with pain, refusing to let out another scream. Tossing the empty flask aside, Caleb gripped his friend tighter, staring as Dean shut his eyes tightly, his body tensing as the water dealt with the infection. "How much longer?"

John was silent a moment. "The flask should hold him until we get there."


	3. Chapter 3

**As always, huge thank you's to Supernoodle for her unending patience and Ridley for her support. **

**Also, none of these characters belong to me. Sigh.**

Bobby was waiting outside the house as John pulled into the junkyard. The mechanic was frowning, arms crossed over his chest, dogs sat at his feet. John leapt out of the car, engine still running as Caleb opened the back door. Bobby didn't bother asking what had happened; he simply pushed John out of the way, hunkering down to get a good look at Dean.

He laid a hand on the boy's forehead, his other lifting Caleb's from the wound so he could look under the makeshift dressing, stained with the dark, oily liquid.

"Flashlight," he grunted and John obediently aimed his light onto his son's side. Bobby pushed against the bruise-like area and Dean moaned softly, the liquid spilling from the bullet hole.

Caleb was keeping a tenuous psychic link open with his friend; Dean had slipped into delirium not long after finishing the holy water, and Caleb hoped to keep him grounded. Unfortunately, this meant Dean was uncomfortably aware of the pain. The psychic felt the fluttering of Dean's confusion and he murmured words of comfort, adjusting his grip as he continued to hold Dean against him.

Bobby wiped the putrid mess, rubbing it between his finger and thumb, lifting it close to his face, his frown deepening.

"The good news is he's trying to fight the infection," he announced gravely. "The bad news is its still spreading. Did you douse the wound?"

"We got him to drink holy water," Caleb answered, glancing at John.

John frowned. "You always told me dousing the wound does no good."

"With a bite, the infection spreads too fast to fight it at source," Bobby replied, taking the torch from John and shining it into Dean's eyes. The boy shied away from the glare, causing Bobby to grip him roughly by the chin. "Looks like the virus is localised in the wound. Hold his head," he added, to Caleb, as Dean shut his eyes tightly in an effort to evade the light.

Caleb did as he was told, genuinely surprised how competent Bobby was. He appeared to be channelling Mac as he lifted one of Dean's eyelids, peering at the pupil intently.

Bobby's specialty was demons, books piled from floor to ceiling on the subject and a source of constant friction between the two of them when Caleb had been a boy. The younger hunter hadn't been aware Bobby's interest spread to Werewolves as well. He'd simply suggested the junkyard as a good place to go because it was the closest hunter's house, holding the necessary supplies needed to heal Dean and no questions asked.

"Pupil's aren't blown, but he's got an aversion to light." Bobby dropped the flashlight, placing a hand behind Dean's neck, withdrawing it with a satisfied smirk. "He's fighting, alright," he said, showing the others the sweat glistening on his palm. "When he stops sweating, he stops resisting."

Dean focused bleary eyes on the old hunter. "Bobby? What are you doing here?" He struggled to pull himself away from Caleb, his hand going to his side as the pain flared and his eyes closing as he collapsed.

Caught in the backlash of the unexpected pain, Caleb was unprepared to deal with it, reeling almost as much as his friend.

Dean slumped sideways, landing against Bobby's shoulder. Surprised, the man froze, before slipping an arm around Dean's back, the other under the boy's knees. He slid Dean out of the car and stood with a groan, hopping he wasn't going to put his back out.

The movement helped Dean come to; he lifted his head, his eyelashes fluttering as he fought his way back to consciousness.

"Easy, Dean," Bobby soothed. "Just relax, gonna take you into the house is all."

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Dean lay on the old, half-collapsed couch in Bobby's living room. His temperature had upped dramatically; the sweat beading on his skin as his body took drastic measures to battle the virus.

Bobby had set John to work removing Dean's jacket, shirt and tee, while he fetched his battered but extensive medical kit.

Returning to the room, Bobby took one look at Caleb's face and instructed the younger hunter to steady Dean while he would take out the bullet.

"Unless you'd rather do it?" he asked John.

Winchester shook his head. "I'll wait outside."

Both the other hunters exchanged a quick look, before moving to Dean's side. Caleb climbed onto the large couch with Dean, placing his hands on him to try to hold him still.

Bobby checked he was ready and, using long, metal tweezers, poked around in the wound.

Dean cried out and Caleb was forced to cut his connection, the pain was intense, fire running through every nerve.

"No morphine?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Wouldn't do a lick of good," Bobby replied, removing the tweezers, thick with the dark poison. Discarding it, he took a scalpel out of its sterile wrapping. "The bullet's not in deep."

Caleb glanced at Dean's face, his eyes wide and watching the two, aware of what was happening. To be conscious with no pain relief while being operated on was going to be hell. "You sure?"

"The poisons beneath the bullet, mostly, lifting it close to the surface," Bobby answered, although Caleb had been speaking about the morphine. He kept his mouth shut as the older hunter hunched over Dean, pressing the sharp blade against the edge of Dean's injury.

"Shit Bobby!" Caleb gasped, as Dean cried out, bucking as the older hunter nicked the sensitive area of the wound.

Bobby wiped his face. "I'm not your Daddy, kid, and I got no time to be gentle."

Dean bucked again as Bobby once more placed the cold metal against his fevered skin.

"Dammit, Caleb," Bobby grunted, lifting the scalpel. "Sit on him if you have to!"

Caleb lifted Dean slightly, sliding his leg behind him and down the other side, his body following so Dean now rested against his chest, Caleb's strong arms wrapping tightly around him and pinning his own arms to his sides.

He glanced at Bobby as the mechanic bent back to his task and Caleb saw it, the light reflecting off the metal. The same, sturdy hand that had assessed Dean in the car now trembled violently.

"Bobby?"

The mechanic sighed, dropping the instrument and clenching his hand. "Been a few years since I operated sober," he admitted.

"You're not touching him drunk!" Caleb swung his leg back around and climbed off the couch. "Hold him."

Swapping quickly, Bobby imitated Caleb's hold on Dean and Caleb picked up the scalpel. He cut firmly, decisively, from the small hole, swiftly exchanging the blade for the tweezers again. He dug into the small hole, grimacing as he felt Dean tense, heard him whimper. Biting his bottom lip, he caught hold of the bullet, pinching it between the metal prongs and tugged, pulling it up and out of Dean.

Releasing the breath he hadn't realised he was holding, Caleb glanced at Bobby.

"You wanna hold or pour, Doc?" the older man asked.

"Hold," Caleb rasped, swallowing the impulse to laugh, relief sweeping through him as Dean opened his eyes to look questioningly at him.

"Hey, good news," Caleb murmured. "Bullet's out."

"Wipe that gunk away," Bobby told him. "Let's see what we've got to work with here."

Caleb glanced down, noticing that now the bullet had been removed, the poison was running freely down Dean's side, slow and insidious, creeping across his skin like a liquid tattoo.

The young psychic once more supported his friend's limp body against his own, taking the sterile medical pads Bobby offered to clean the injury.

The older hunter left the room, returning a moment later with a bottle.

He knelt by Deans side, running an unexpectedly gentle hand through the boy's hair. Dean blinked hard, trying to focus on him.

"Gotta douse the wound, Dean," Bobby explained, lifting the bottle higher so the young hunter could see it. "Caleb's gonna be here, you look to him, boy."

Dean did as instructed, tilting his head back and lifting his eyes to lock on his friends face. Both Dean and Caleb knew what Bobby was suggesting, keeping Dean focused on Caleb would help him find the strength to keep going, would give him something other than the pain.

Bobby caught the psychic's attention. "I need him awake," he murmured. "I need to see how he's doing; best way to tell is the eyes." Off Caleb's look, he added gruffly, "I'm not an expert; I can only work with what I got."

Caleb closed his eyes briefly, swallowing, but nodded. He wove his mind through Deans, linking them as a child might link his fingers into an adults grip. And like a child, Dean clung to him, frightened and fighting and unbearably exhausted.

Bobby uncorked the bottle and Dean's eyes flickered warily towards it.

"This is gonna hurt like a bitch, and I'm sorry for that," Bobby told him softly. "But I don't know any other way. So you scream, son, you scream as long and as loud as you want."

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Dean tried to control his breathing, knowing he was sucking in air too fast, in danger of hyperventilating and passing out, but he feared the holy water and its powerful burn.

Bobby poured slowly, directly onto the bullet hole and the scream tore from Dean before he could stop it, his body twisting from the older hunter and the pain he inflicted.

Caleb's comforting presence dimmed in his mind, the psychic seeking to shield himself from his friend's agony and Dean gripped the arm pressed against his chest, digging his fingers into the strong muscle. He fought to pull the restraint away as Bobby poured again, eliciting another strangled cry, as Dean's struggle to escape the torture intensified.

"Don't fight me, Dean," Caleb told him, averting his eyes from the thick wisps of smoke rising from the wound. He locked gazes with him again. "Just look at me, Deuce, keep your eyes on me."

Dean nodded. His teeth were clenched tight, jaw muscles throbbing and sweat running down his face, but his bloodshot eyes remained steady. Bobby lent forward once more and this time the scream held a sob.

Caleb almost bit off his tongue at the sound, sweating nearly as much as Dean and cursing as Bobby didn't give either of them a chance to recover, adding more of the holy water into the injury.

"He's slipping, keep him with us," the mechanic ground out harshly, ignoring the protest.

It was true, after the last assault of water, Dean's eyes had closed and he had allowed his body to take over, drifting ever closer to unconsciousness. With an effort, Caleb wrenched Dean's mind open, re-establishing the link he had shied away from and weaving himself through once more.

With a hoarse groan, Dean opened his eyes, blinking up at him.

"Sorry Deuce," he murmured. "No sleeping on the job."

A tiny smile formed on the corners of the boys lips. "You gonna tell Dad I'm slacking?"

"It's our secret," Caleb confirmed, heartened by the attempt of a smile.

"What about Bobby?"

"If he tells anyone, we'll kill him."

Dean nodded, looking utterly spent. He glanced at the mechanic and nodded again.

Bobby's face was dark, brow furrowed, his distaste for the task palpable as he poured.

Dean barely had the strength the cry out this time and Caleb fought to hold him onto this plane of reality. Panting, Dean opened his eyes, finding those of his friends. Caleb almost looked away, the moss green orbs wide and begging and too painful to hold, but the young hunter couldn't abandon Dean now and he offered a gentle smile instead.

"I'm sorry, kiddo," he said, falling back on an old name easily. "I know it hurts."

"Can you …?" Dean gestured limply towards his own head and Caleb's heart sank. Dean was asking if he could stop him from feeling the pain.

"You know I can't, Deuce, I don't know how," he explained. "It's just not my gift."

Dean's breath hitched. "Getting any death visions?"

"Not gonna happen," Caleb told him firmly. "You're fighting this, Dean."

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Dean had screamed himself hoarse, now he was trying to breathe through the pain, refusing to let himself sob even as tears fell from his eyes, running to disappear into his hair. His fevered glance shifted from Caleb to Bobby, mouth open as harsh gasps escaped him, his eyes imploring Bobby not to do that again.

Standing, Bobby wiped his hand over his mouth and made his way into the other room where John sat with his head in his hands at the table.

The old mechanic slammed a fresh bottle of holy water down, hard enough to cause the other hunter to look at him.

"Is it done?" he asked, his voice low and deadened.

Bobby took a steadying breath. John may have been able to numb himself to Dean's cries of pain, but he hadn't, he'd had a front row seat. In that moment, he hated John Winchester; he hated all the man stood for, he hated his son and the screams that tore at his nerves and he hated Caleb for bringing them to him.

"Bobby?" John pressed.

"No." Bobby forced the word between clenched teeth. "It's not. I can't finish it."

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

Bobby ran his hand down his face wearily. "I mean, I can't do it. That boy's in a whole 'nother world of hurt and I can't be what he needs."

John remained silent and motionless.

"It's not me he needs, Winchester," Bobby continued. "Go in there and for once in his life, be a father to him."

"I can't be that man anymore," John replied.

"Tonight, you can be," Bobby snarled. "I know why – hell, I even understand why you can't be most times. Doesn't mean I agree and that's something we'll discuss at some point, Winchester," he added quickly. "But right now that kid's scared out of his mind and half crazy from pain and _you_ are gonna tend to him."

In a few long strides, Bobby had picked up the bottle and handed it to John. "Look after your son," he growled. "Keep dousing him or the infection's gonna take hold. No matter what he says, however he pleads with you, keep dousing him until I tell you otherwise."

John stared at the mechanic for a moment, before turning and leaving the room. As he did, the old grandfather clock Bobby owned hit the hour, making John glance at it. As it counted down the strikes, he could only imagine it as a death knoll tolling for his child.

John paused, watching his son from the doorway. Dean had turned from him, looking at Caleb whose hand he was clutching so tightly his knuckles were white. John could hear the ragged breathing, interspersed with tiny whimpers, though.

The older hunter stared at Dean's chest, at the darkened, bruise-like area spreading across his lower ribs and the small, black hole where the poisoned bullet had entered. Sweat had pooled in the hollows of his son's torso, with each trembling inhale they shivered and formed incessant rivers that slid down his sides.

John stepped closer, gripping the glass in his hand so tightly he was in danger of shattering it.

Dean turned to face him, blinking his red-rimmed eyes.

"Hey kiddo," John whispered. "You ready for round two?"

Dean glanced helplessly at the water. "Dad," he croaked. "Dad, please."

John licked his lips. "I'm sorry, son," he managed, reaching out to run his free hand through Dean's short, wet hair. The heat was coming off the boy in waves, the virus raging in his blood.

Caleb positioned himself to hold his friend down again, nodding to signal John to begin.

As he poured and Dean screamed beneath his ministrations, John found he could only murmur, "It's alright, it's alright," ineffectively, his words meant to comfort lost in Dean's own introduction to hell.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam glanced at the phone. 

It stared back, small and smug and maddingly silent. An inanimate object, there to do his bidding, he'd never felt much of anything for it before, but tonight an irrational sense of hatred was welling up. 

It was the waiting, he decided. The way he knew it was going to ring, his hand reaching for it, only to be mocked by its silence. 

It'd been building all week, this feeling and now Sam was pacing his small dorm worrying at a thumbnail and driving himself quietly insane. 

He'd been gone for three months now. It was roughly the anniversary of his freedom so, as he had after four weeks, and after eight, Sam was expecting a call. 

Hell, he'd been expecting one since he'd left, reaching Stanford tense, his muscles like coiled springs, waiting to be told his brother or father was in the hospital, that he had to come back, that he wasn't allowed to escape. 

But it never came. 

As the weeks passed, Sam had gradually relaxed. They weren't coming for him, they weren't hurt and he could breathe. Still, he expected a call. 

His roommate had teased him at the party; Sam Winchester, the great unknown, had relaxed ladies and gentlemen, the books for once closed and stacked on his desk. 

Sam had laughed good-naturedly. It was true. The desperate need for scholastic excellence was passing, he had done it, he had broken free. That didn't mean he was going to waste his time here, though. He had to continue to pull in the grades, after all, or he was out. And how would that feel? 

The phone remained silent. 

Sam ignored its non-reply, thoughts of crawling back to his father, tail between his legs and having to admit he had nowhere else to go causing him to stare guiltily at his books. He made no move towards them, however, unable to concentrate and his head pounding. 

The headache had been what had caused him to leave the party so early; a steady tap, tap, tap against his temples and a kaleidoscope of colour each time he closed his eyes. 

I can sing a rainbow, his mind whispered. With a groan, Sam sat heavily on his bed. 

Fuck rainbows. He'd had his fill of them. As a child he'd loved them, pointing out the colours to anyone who'd stand still long enough and begging Dean to teach him that stupid song. 

As he grew older, the rainbows left the sky, reappearing on his father's body and marring his brother's skin with alarming regularity 

(Red and yellow and pink and green,) 

as injuries came and went, replaced or overlaid by fresh sets 

(purple and orange and blue.) 

like a patchwork quilt, much repaired and added to. 

The image of Dean as he'd last seen him rose unbidden in his mind. 

His brother had been asleep on his bed, a threadbare, ratty old thing in the habit of sticking it's weary occupant with a well placed spring, or else sending them rolling into a crevasse. Every member of Sam's small family had perfected the art of sleeping anywhere, however, and Dean lay on the top of the covers, wearing his hoodie. A warning signal in Sam's imagination, a sure sign Dean was hurting. 

Much like the bed, it was old and tatty, but it was still warm and soft, the material gentle on bruises. 

(Red and yellow and pink and green,) 

Sam had tended them, and the accompanying cuts and grazes, he had passed the painkillers as he tried to determine between cracked or bruised ribs 

(purple and orange and blue.) 

while their Dad went back to finish the job, returning with his own set of starbursts 

(I can sing a rainbow,) 

and a reprimand for Dean. Of course, his brother had taken it, just as always and just as always, Sam had protested. 

(sing a rainbow,) 

Dean, pumped full of Excedrin, had dozed off while their father was in the bathroom and Sam had stared at his face, relaxed and boyish in sleep, a graze on his high cheekbone, the images of his colourful array of wounds superimposed over the soft folds of his hoodie, 

(Sing a red and yellow and) 

until he couldn't look anymore. 

(pink and green, purple) 

And that, the thought of his brother slipping away shade by shade, had been when Sam had taken his acceptance letter 

(and orange and) 

out of his coat pocket 

(blue. I can sing a rainbow,) 

and told his Dad he was out. For good. 

Dean had woken with a start and a stifled groan for the grand finale, 

(sing a rainbow, sing a rainbow too.) 

Sam declaring he couldn't spend another night like this, Dad shouting that if he was going, he should stay gone. 

Pale from sleep, or perhaps lack of it, watching with eyes too big for his face, Dean had tried to intervene. 

Sam had ignored his brother, swung his bag over his shoulder and opened the door. 

Dean had shot off the bed then, moved so fast Sam didn't have a chance to escape the grip on his elbow. Dean had asked him to stay one more night and Sam had shaken his head. The painkillers talking, it had to be the painkillers, the alternative was too frightening, Dean had babbled. It was cold out, the buses didn't run that late, they could road trip it together if only Sam would stay one more night. 

Sam knew it would always be one more night and shook his head again. 

In frustration, Dean had looked to their Dad and asked him to tell his son, but John had said all he would on the matter and remained tight-lipped and stony faced, his eyes dark and unfathomable, like the man himself. 

Dean spun back to his brother, unwilling to give up, his voice low, coaxing. "You know how he gets. Let him sleep the pain off, he'll be better tomorrow." 

"Tomorrow." Sam spat the word coldly. "Haven't you heard, Dean? Tomorrow never comes. It'll always be the same." 

Dean had shut his eyes as Sam continued. "We shouldn't be doing this - you shouldn't be doing this. How many more times are you gonna get hurt for his quest?" 

"It's for mum," Dean had snapped. He sighed, softening his tone. "If we don't do it, who will? I'm fine, Sammy." 

Sam's temper had flared, his hard gaze finding his father once more. "Do you hear this? What you've done to him? He's killing himself to please you and I can't ..." his voice trailed off, his eyes coming to rest on Dean again. 

(Red. Yellow. Pink.) 

"I can't look at you anymore. I don't see you." 

(Green. Purple.) 

Dean had frowned and Sam sighed. 

(Orange. Blue.) 

"I see broken bones, your skin shredded by things no-one should know about, let alone face. I see concussions and scars and blood and death." 

(I can sing a rainbow too.) 

Sam had bowed his head and whispered, "I see the bruises, Dean, and I can't see you anymore. I can't watch you do this." 

Dean had let go. Their father, so often excluded from the conversation, hadn't heard Sam's last words, but he saw Dean's reaction. His eldest had reached into his pocket and withdrawn a wad of cash John hadn't known he had and pressed into Sam's hand. The boy had resisted, but Dean was wearing his big brother no nonsense face and Sam had caved. 

"Call me," he'd forced past his tight throat. "Dean, if things get really bad," and here Sam's eyes had flickered to John and back again, "call me." 

Dean had nodded once and Sam had stepped out the door. He turned, lifted a hand to his brother and walked away from his family. 

There had been no call. 

Sam knew Dean was giving him space, respecting that Sam had left the world he still inhabited, acknowledging his brother couldn't live in both, but tonight Sam would have liked to have known where he was and if he was alright. 

His head pounded, his thumb bled unnoticed, a snatch of song played on a loop. 

Sam looked at the phone. 

Things couldn't be that bad. Dean hadn't called, he was alright. 

Wasn't he? 

The phone declined to comment. 

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The sound coming from Dean's throat wasn't a scream anymore. There was no energy left for it; just harsh expulsions of exhausted breathing and when John doused the wound, all Dean could manage was a weak echo of his previous agony.

John gave him a minute to rest and Dean shut his eyes gratefully. His father inspected the injury. It was swollen and hot, but the bruising had faded. The poison was dissolving.

The rhythm of Dean's movements brought John's head back up, fearing he was sleeping and unable to fight, but he was awake; head tilted and staring up at Caleb.

The other hunter wasn't speaking to him vocally, so immersed within Dean's mind he no longer needed to and there was something so intensely private about what the two were sharing that John had to look away.

"It's not gone," Bobby said, speaking from behind John's shoulder. "Keep going."

John ignored the fact the other hunter had gotten the drop on him and got his son's attention, lightly touching his arm. Dean's head slowly swivelled towards him.

"Ready?"

Dean closed his eyes briefly, swallowing before giving a tiny nod.

"Alright," John agreed, tipping the bottle back to the wound, watching his boy flinch as the cool liquid burnt through him. "You're doing great, Dean," he soothed. "Easy, now, just breathe."

He poured a little more, watching the water fill the bullet hole, fizzle and smoke.

Dean suddenly let go of the grip he had on Caleb's restraining arm, hand reaching for the neck of the bottle, trembling and as weak as John had ever seen it.

Hating the way it shook, giving away Dean's vulnerability, stripping the illusion of strength, John grasped that hand, imbuing it with his own muscle. His son was strong. It was cruel to take that away from him.

Holding Dean's slick fingers, John gritted his teeth. They would get through this. They had gotten through Mary's death; they had gotten through the last eighteen years. They were getting through this.

John repeated his mechanical movement; tip the bottle, pour the water, hear it burn, but his eyes were for Dean now, supporting and encouraging and loving.

He was going to get them through this.

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The world had faded around Caleb. The room no longer existed, he couldn't feel the couch beneath his ass, didn't see the morning beginning to dawn. He wasn't even aware of Dean physically.

Dean's mind was his whole world.

A tiny whisper suggested maybe he was in too far, too involved, but Dean was fading before him and he had to dig himself in deeper each time his friend slipped away from him.

The pain was intense, he ached to shake his mind out, the way a man might shake his fingers after he's held on to something strongly for a long time. But Dean had no relief and Caleb could no more abandon him now than he had been able to when a man called Delanely had been sent after a terrified boy carrying memories that didn't belong to him.

Dean clung to his mind initially; Caleb had been able to tell he was worried John would have to shoot him before he killed someone, a tiny thought just sitting on the edge of his subconscious, a ghostly whisper of taunting laughter.

_It's deserved. You screwed up. Justice. Sammy got his way out, you got yours._

_It's not your fault,_ Caleb countered. _And you don't get to leave that easy. You want out; you gotta walk away._

Now Dean was too tired to think, drifting and limp and almost delirious with the constant pain. Caleb kept having to push further, reach in and retake Dean, pulling him back from the brink.

It was exhausting work; had he been aware of his body, he would have noticed he was shaking as much as Dean, sweating with the strain, his eyes as gritty and bloodshot as any all night bender, pupils looked on his friend.

When John poured the Holy water, Caleb clamped his teeth down on the scream he wanted to shout for Dean. His muscles contracted, tightening on the injured boy instinctively as the body bucked and twisted, weaker and weaker with each struggle.

Caleb sent soothing thoughts, encouragement and promises and in a corner of his own head, begged for it to end.

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Bobby had noticed the screaming had long since stopped. He could hear John talking softly; too quiet to make out the words, but that didn't matter. They weren't for his ears anyway.

He gave them another hour before going back into the room.

This time John was aware of his presence, turning towards Bobby. He looked older than he had done yesterday. His skin, usually robustly tanned, was grey, dark circles around his equally dark eyes. Bobby imagined there were more grey flecking the dark scrubby beard.

It had clearly been hell. John Winchester wasn't a man who would back down, though, he wouldn't stop what he was doing until it was done, Bobby had seen that many times over the course of the long years. It was a trait he admired and detested in equal parts in the man, a wall he had beaten his head on often and stood his back against on almost every hunt.

He turned away from the older hunter to assess the younger members of their peculiar circle.

Caleb was focused intently on the other boy, his expression both far away and rooted in now. The combination gave Bobby the heebie-jeebies. He always hated that mumbo shit Mac and the boy played at, too close to what they fought against for his liking, no matter how useful it was proving.

Bobby had no problem exploiting a resource if the job called for it. Didn't mean he had to like it, wasn't as if he shared a house with the kid, after all. Caleb was serving a purpose right now and Bobby would take all he could from him.

Dean looked shattered. He could hardly draw breath; his eyes were drooping heavily, but jerking open again. Caleb's' doing, no doubt. The wound was running red now, diluted and slow, but red, not black.

Bobby took the bottle from John, shook it to see how much was left and dumped the remaining contents over the injury. Dean flinched, but didn't utter a sound and Bobby wondered if it hurt still, if he could even feel pain after all he had experienced this night.

He bent close and found no smoke, no hissing bubble of melting poison. He flicked on his penlight and tried to shine it into Dean's right eye, but the kid was staring hard up at Caleb, their breathing, Bobby noticed, in tandem. He gripped Dean's chin, pulling hard, the slick skin slipping beneath his fingers, but succeeded in breaking the connection.

He was surprised it was Caleb who uttered the soft protest, a little cry of something like pain, but he pinned Dean's eyelid back, shone the torch at him and watched the results.

It was obviously uncomfortable, Dean fighting to blink and his eyes watering, but there was no longer an aversion to the intruding light. Bobby let go, wiping his mouth and clicking off the light.

"It's done," Bobby breathed. "Christ, its over."

Dean's head snapped back to find his friend again, who smiled softly. "Hear that? It's done, Dean. You did it."

Dean let out a burst of breath that might have been laughter at any other time, or might have been a sob had it not been him and Caleb touched his face lightly.

"You're sure?" John pressed quietly, his eyes riveted on his son's face, drinking him in, almost.

"Yeah." Standing abruptly, the mechanic left the room. The distinctive clink of bottle on glass and the swoosh of filling liquid drifted from the kitchen.

John rubbed his face wearily. "Go get one," he told Caleb.

The younger hunter didn't move. He was holding Dean just as tightly as he had been since this nightmare began and John reached over to shake his arm.

"Break the connection," he ordered. "Caleb. Get out of his head now. Let him sleep."

With what looked like a great effort, Caleb came back to himself. Blinking slowly and lifting his arms from Dean, Caleb looked at John.

"Get a drink. You earned one," John insisted.

Caleb glanced wearily at Dean, still lying against his chest and John felt a little flutter of impatience.

"I'd like to be alone with my son," he growled.

Caleb, moving like a man with arthritis, slid out from behind Dean, intending to lay him down on the couch, but John took his place, supporting the weight gently and tenderly - almost hesitantly - wrapping Dean within his embrace.

As Caleb left the room, he heard Dean speak.

"Dad, I'm sorry."

John was silent a moment. "You got nothing to be sorry for, son."

"But –"

"Shhhh, Dean. Go to sleep."

The young hunter wanted desperately to give in to the order, to his body's urgent demands, but he shifted restlessly. It had been many years since he had slept in his fathers arms, he felt uncomfortable, as if he was admitting weakness permitting this. He stiffened in surprise when he felt John press his lips against his sweat-drenched hair, relaxing at the words he whispered.

"It's okay. I'm right here."


	5. Chapter 5

**What can I say? Short but sweet?**

Dean sighed in his sleep and John was reminded of a time when Dean had been small and could find peace resting on his shoulder.

Dean had loved Mary fiercely and with all the loyalty of a small child but he had been his father's creature, a tiny shadow by his side or waiting patiently at the window for John to return.

When Mary had been pregnant with him, John would lie behind her, his chest flush with her back and one large hand splayed over her belly, Dean moving beneath his fingers.

"He knows it's you," Mary would murmur sleepily when he and the baby woke her and John's heart would swell.

Every kick, push, roll or hiccup John had claimed as his own and Mary would laugh at him, telling him his child was as much a night owl as he was.

Later, when Dean had been born wrinkled and angry and so impossibly perfect, he had calmed in his father's hands, dozing and blowing bubbles through pursed lips and John's heart had once more claimed him.

Since that day, Dean went everywhere with him, as much as he could. On even the simplest of errands, John would dress him in his outside clothes and strap him into the Impala. When Dean teethed, it was John's collarbone he had gnawed on; given gladly in the hope it might ease his infant son's gums. Cuts and scrapes and as many meals as could be managed were given to John, although bath time was wholly Mary's domain.

Once Dean had learned to walk, John would often glance down and see his son beside him, never clinging but invariably there. Gazing up under the weight of his father's stare, Dean's eyes would shine with a love innocently given, there for the taking and asking nothing in return.

Watching his son sleep now, John wondered just when he had started to take that unwavering trust and devotion for granted.

The bond they shared had never broken, but it had been tested - hard - especially recently and all the while John had never doubted Dean would be with him or waiting patiently for his return. He had never asked himself why Dean stayed; he had never cared to know. Dean was a man now, with all the rights and privileges that the title awarded, yet still he subjected himself to his father's law.

Had John screwed him up so badly Dean was frightened by the world outside the monsters? Didn't he think he could function away from salt and iron and the smell of blood? When Sam had shown him how easy it was to walk away, there had never been any fear in John's mind that Dean would follow. He found the realisation tasted bitter.

Caleb entered the room and John, welcoming the distraction, looked up, his hand unconsciously resting in Dean's hair, a familiar gesture, a comfort to both father and son.

"Do you know who did this?" he asked, his voice pitched low, his words steady, giving away none of previous thoughts.

"Kinda hard to tell," Caleb answered, lifting one hand to his head and making a gun with his first two fingers.

John nodded. He had known men who had been driven to it, men who had lost their lives to the dark and men who had lost their souls in a war they didn't believe in.

The father glanced back down at his son. Those men hadn't had Dean to come home to, waiting to reassure them with a gentle hand on the shoulder, waiting to offer softly spoken words, covering hurts like a balm.

"It's alright, dad," Dean would tell him, never once asking what the shadows in John's eyes represented and the elder Winchester would find the strength to go back out the next time in his boy's unflinching belief.

"He's alright, John," Caleb murmured and Winchester glanced up sharply, wondering if the younger man had read his thoughts. However, Caleb's eyes were on Dean and John realised the comment came from a need to confirm for himself his friend would survive.

Bobby appeared in the doorway. "Guest bed's made up," he informed John. When he frowned, Bobby gestured to Dean. "Kid can't stay on the couch."

Caleb made to lift Dean, but one look at John's face gave him reason to pause. Now he had begun to bridge the gap between them, John was reluctant to let go of his son again. He slid out, standing beside the half-broken furniture, contemplating his sleeping child.

Bobby lent against the doorjamb.

"Lift with your knees," he advised sardonically and caught in the act of letting his mind wander again, John swiftly bent to the task.

Dean was heavier than he expected. John tried to remember the last time he had carried Dean anywhere, the memory hazy with age. Either Dean insisted on walking under his own power, or his brother propped him up.

Dean wouldn't show his father his weakness and that was something that tore at John, another self destructive trait he had managed to pass on, despite the promise made over his own father's grave not to fuck his children up the way the old man had.

John had soon learnt not to make promises, often walking away from Sammy when the young boy asked for an oath, a solemn vow he could pin his hope on. Dean had learnt not to ask, expecting only disappointment in doing so.

Upstairs now, John laid Dean on the bed, sitting beside him to run a hand through his hair again.

"Shit," he whispered.

Dean remained unresponsive, sleeping deeply and John wondered if he was dreaming. Considering the night's events, he hoped not. Sammy tended to be the one who suffered from nightmares, buried so deep within them it was often hard to wake him, but Dean had had the odd terror also.

John removed his boy's boots and jeans, lifting him to pull back the thick duvet. He settled Dean back down, grimacing slightly when Bobby's oldest dog nosed his way into the room to jump with arthritic joints up beside Dean. When Dean woke, he was going to complain about the smell - junkyard dogs weren't the most hygienic of bed guests and this old boy hadn't bothered with shampoo for almost a decade, from what John could tell. Still, for all his faults, Dean liked him.

The first time John had driven up to the junkyard, he'd been afraid of letting Dean out of the car, the dogs barking loudly, saliva dripping from yellow fangs and chains tested to the max. Dean had peered through the glass at them, still in the first stages of Mac's treatment, silent but responding to outside stimuli at least. John hadn't known if he was terrified or curious as his large green eyes took them in.

He'd gotten his answer when he exited the car, turning back to see Dean had wound down the window, his arm tiny in comparison to the dogs mouths, reaching for one of them. Before John or Bobby had been able to get to him, the dog had opened its mouth for something other than barking. John hadn't carried a gun quite so regularly in those days, still thinking of himself as a civilian and he had cursed foully when his searching fingers closed over nothing. To his ever lasting relief, the beast had simply licked Dean's little hand, his fingers wiggling as the tongue lapped over them.

He'd followed Dean around the place since that first meeting, and the boy had always drawn quiet comfort from his own personal angel. While Jim's dogs had flocked to Sammy, this mutt had seemed to find a kindred spirit in the older boy, defending Dean resolutely, barking angrily at raised voices and placing himself before his charge when strangers came too close.

John had heard Joshua had once joked they both took their guard dog duties seriously. John had seen the resulting broken nose for himself. Smiling softly, John resumed running his fingers through Dean's hair, reminiscing.

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Bobby and Caleb, left alone after John had removed Dean, returned to the kitchen. Sitting at opposite ends of the table, they shared the bottle of whiskey in companionable silence.

"Damn strong kid," Bobby grunted eventually.

Caleb nodded, knowing all too well how much had been taken from Dean. Silence followed until Bobby spoke again.

"What's it like?"

"What?"

Bobby lifted his hand, tapping the side of the glass he held against his temple.

"That," he explained. "Going into someone's head."

Caleb struggled with an analogy Bobby would be able to grasp. "Like going into an engine blind," he said finally.

Bobby raised an eyebrow and Caleb continued.

"Like being lost in a crowd, only there's no one there." He lent forward, leaning heavily on the table. "You think its just one room, but if you look closer, there's halls and doors and levels and all of it sitting on top of itself. There's space enough to hold a galaxy, folded and hidden away in a tiny box."

"Huh," Bobby grunted, and Caleb sat back, slightly disappointed the old mechanic hadn't been impressed with his description. "I'm going to bed," he added, taking the bottle with him.

Caleb sat alone for a moment, until he was sure Bobby was behind his closed door. He stood, going to the nearest cupboard and taking a second, half-drunk bottle from the shelf. He toasted the older man with the bottle and a twisted smile, taking a swig.

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The peace had lasted two days.


End file.
